


Vigil

by birdinastorm



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Feral Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Gen, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21701608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdinastorm/pseuds/birdinastorm
Summary: Byleth didn’t understand what tied Dimitri to this place, why he spent his time here day and night. Perhaps it was some memory of comfort, of having the protection of the goddess— or maybe he was waiting for her punishment, swift retribution for his bloody work. Byleth wished he could tell him that the goddess he awaited was in front of him, pulling him up with all his strength, and that neither salvation nor damnation were coming to him.Byleth and Felix try, in their own ways, to save a man who doesn't want to be saved.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & My Unit | Byleth, Felix Hugo Fraldarius & My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 1
Kudos: 40





	Vigil

The moon, blurred with a cataract of ice, stared down through the gaping hole in the roof of the cathedral. Rainwater from a passing storm trickled through the wound and dripped on the altar buried in rubble, silver and wet. So many storms had come and gone since that first one which extinguished the fire that burned here, that weakened the roof— fresh spring showers, feverish summer thunderstorms, incessant freezing winter drizzle. Still that fire burned in Byleth’s mind, he had not seen go it out. All that time, all those moments, inconsequential and momentous alike, burned away like dewdrops in the morning, in one unbroken dreamless sleep. Since his awakening Byleth found rest tiresome, and in his nightly wanderings returned again and again to the broken altar, its heavenly vault of sky, and the man who kept vigil there.

He was sitting on the buckled marbled tiles, leaning against the pile of rubble, head thrown back, looking dead. Looking it, wishing it, perhaps; but not being it, for Byleth could hear the soft stirring of his breath. He approached him slowly, not wanting to startle him, saying his name softly to alert him of his presence. No acknowledgment. He wondered if tonight he could get him free of this place, to get him to make some concession to his living body, to sleep, rather than exist in this half-awake state of total abnegation of self. He leaned over him to look into his face. A mask of exhaustion veiled by lank hair, with one dull rimy eye, stared back. 

“Dimitri,” he repeated. 

“What do you want?” he growled. An ember of anger flared in his pale eye. 

“Come with me,” Byleth said. Dimitri didn’t respond. Byleth gripped his arm. If it weren’t for the armor it would have hurt. “I’m not letting you sit here another night. You need to sleep. Come with me, that’s an order.” Byleth didn’t understand what tied Dimitri to this place, why he spent his time here day and night. Perhaps it was some memory of comfort, of having the protection of the goddess— or maybe he was waiting for her punishment, swift retribution for his bloody work. Byleth wished he could tell him that the goddess he awaited was in front of him, pulling him up with all his strength, and that neither salvation nor damnation were coming to him. Those were, after all, only human inventions. Byleth himself could only offer mortal comforts, if this broken prince would accept them. On his feet now, unsteady, Dimitri silently relented to his goddess’s will and they left the cathedral together. 

Byleth lead him through the monastery, hollow porticos and shattered doorways yawning to either side, through empty courtyards choked with dead weeds, black and broken in the moonlight. No torch softened the night’s sharp edges, and the winter air held no sounds of life, nothing but his companion’s uneven tread and tired breath. They climbed the black stone stair to the second floor of the dormitory. In the hall a single candelabra was lit, everything else was thrown into a close, velvety darkness. Byleth groped for the nearest door, and finding it, forced it open on its stiff hinges. Inside, the moonlight edged in through shutters battened down in the battle and never opened since. The carpet showed dusty red where the light touched, and black like old blood elsewhere. The room was cold, albeit slightly warmer than the cathedral, and musty. Dimitri, standing close behind Byleth, exuded a heavy, animal-like scent, which mixed with the back-of-the-cupboard smell of the room, making a heady, sickening perfume. His smell reminded Byleth of the barracks, of desperation. “Stay here,” Byleth commanded, and went to collect blankets from his room. 

When he returned, Dimitri was as he left him, sitting on the edge of the narrow bed, staring into nothingness. The blankets had been given to them as thanks by the surrounding villages, they were warm but old, stained and patched. It didn’t matter, not now. He carried at least four of these, one of which might have been a horse blanket, and dumped them all on the bed, still unmade from the last time anyone slept in it. Dimitri looked up at Byleth and quietly intoned, “Help me out of this.” 

Byleth stared blankly back, not understanding. He stood up and pulled off his huge cloak, and Byleth realized he meant his armor. The black armor was nearly invisible in the darkness, so Byleth picked up a candle stub and candle holder from the dresser, and lit the candle with a spark of fire magic. In the dim gleam he could see the buckles and fasteners holding it all together, and how Dimitri could not easily reach all of them. The leather was stiff, and some of the buckles were frozen from disuse. Byleth’s cold hands worked at each fastening until it came loose, and slowly the armor came away, piece by piece. Other than the dry leather, the armor was in surprisingly good shape; it was perhaps the best-kept part of his being. Underneath it all was a quilted surcoat, stiffened and yellowed with sweat, with its wool batting poking out from frayed edges, and very finely knitted wool leggings, shirt, and socks, a specialty of Faerghus. Around his wrists the skin shone red, rubbed raw from his gauntlets. He pulled the surcoat off and sighed. The candle guttered. Last of all he removed his eyepatch, which he placed carefully on the dresser. Out of his armor he looked fragile, deflated and defeated. 

Byleth stripped the bed of the old coverings, leaving the wool mattress bare, and waved an invitation to lay down. He curled up on the bed and covered his face with his hands, which were black with bruises on the knuckles, and even now looked tense. Byleth spread four blankets over him, and topped this pile off with the wolfskin from Dimitri’s cloak. Dimitri hovered at the edge of consciousness, still unwilling to let his alertness go, in obvious discomfort. He made no noise, a precaution of those habituated to being hunted, but tossed and turned. Byleth stood over him, waiting, watching the moonlight march across the floor, listening for any sign in Dimitri’s breathing that meant he had found sleep at last. There was none. Byleth was at a loss— in his hazy memory no moments of comfort would come, only Jeralt’s stern face, the mercenaries on a march, the wind, the rain. 

A song floated to the surface of his mind. After humming a few phrases, Byleth finally recognized it as Sothis’s song. He let it flow out, and with it came a sense of peace and joy. He was lost in it, an emotion from some other time and place entirely, belonging to another body. When the song came to an end and he came back to his senses, he listened to Dimitri’s breathing. Steadier this time, perhaps in the rhythm of sleep. He looked him over, and indeed he was drifting in an uneasy sleep; his eye soft but his brow slightly creased, and his hand clenched. Byleth sat down on the floor at the foot of the bed, and started to sing again. The song kept flowing through him, like a river; he let it fill the empty time until dawn. The candle having long burned out, the winter sun began to peek through the shutters. Byleth bowed his heavy head. In the soft, not-quite-oblivion of sleep he could still hear the song, as if Sothis were there in the dark, singing to herself. An ache of longing boiled up in them, and in his dream he sobbed desperately before the empty throne. 

Awake, disoriented. He found himself in the bed, covered with the four blankets and wolfskin. Dimitri was gone, as was his cloak, surcoat and knit underclothes. The shutters were open, letting in the wan light of a rainy day. Byleth rolled over onto his back and closed his eyes, feeling listless and displaced. The rain rushed across the roof and clattered in the window frames like a flock of frenzied birds. The door creaked. 

Byleth sat up to see Dimitri sidle into the room, wearing an old academy uniform under his cloak and carrying a great bundle of stuff in his arms, damp with rain. The uniform was chewed up by rodents in places, the cuffs taking the brunt of the damage, which were pushed back past his chafed wrists. He dropped the bundle on the floor and spread it out; his clothes, bits of fabric from uniforms, a pack of needles, and little skeins of roughly spun natural black yarn, all arrayed around him. He looked at it appraisingly, as if it were the map of a battlefield. 

“You don’t know how to mend, do you?” Dimitri asked, without looking up. Byleth said no. He shook his head, “Too bad. Mercedes taught me but I’m still not very good at it.” He picked up a sock and put his fingers through the mostly missing toe. “This one needs a whole new toe. I think Annette knows how to knit.” Byleth stared, unable to believe what was hearing and seeing— Dimitri was acting as if he wanted to live. 

“Dimitri, your wrists…” 

A blush of shame bloomed on his face, which surprised Byleth. “It doesn’t matter,” he said quickly. 

“It does matter. If it hurts, it’ll distract you.” 

“Pain isn’t a distraction,” he said, looking at Byleth fully. Past his intent stare Byleth noticed Dimitri’s hand twist around his wrist, pressing into the angry skin. How had he never noticed this habit before? Perhaps it was an old habit, twisting a shackle around his wrist, and later, twisting a gauntlet. 

“Let me heal you. Otherwise you could give yourself tendonitis, then how would you carry a lance?” 

He lowered his gaze, and picked up the surcoat and some shirt scraps, needle and thread. “I don’t need healing.” There was that unspoken “there’s no point.” He worked quietly and intently, and Byleth watched his dextrous hands slowly patch the surcoat. 

“Then why mend this, and not yourself?” 

Dimitri’s response was curt. “This armor is all I have left.” 

What a bitter thing, hope. 

— —

Byleth waited in the little room, having made the bed, but of course Dimitri didn’t come. The moon rose, and he set out again, back to the altar and its devoted prince. Dimitri’s shapeless form was a dark smudge at the base of the ruin, nothing remotely human about it. The anger and pity Byleth felt seeing him was keen as a poisoned dagger. Dimitri was slumped over, constrained by his armor, his cloak spilling out behind him. He appeared to be actually asleep, however, which made him too dangerous to approach. Were he to startle him awake Byleth could easily lose his life. He turned to leave, but noticed another figure standing in the wings, away from the altar. It was Felix. His hard gaze met Byleth’s, yet it seemed to be an invitation, since he held it a second longer than normal. 

They walked to the bridge together. A cold snap had frozen yesterday’s rain, which crunched under their boots. Halfway across, Felix stopped them. He put up his hood and looked out over the pines in the vale. “I heard you, last night,” he said. 

“You heard my song?”

Felix waved his hands in exasperation, “Yes, I heard your song! Don’t be obtuse, I know you managed to get that— him into the dorm, is all I’m saying.” He stared even more fixedly on the pines. Byleth waited to see if Felix would actually ask after Dimitri’s well-being. He waited an excruciatingly long time, because he can. Felix stamped his feet, first to keep them warm, and then out of pique. “Well, Professor?” 

“I did get him to sleep, but I don’t think he’s made any progress, really.” 

“An animal doesn’t run from comfort. That’s a demon in there.” Felix pointed at the cathedral. “I’m sick of it. Why do we even have to listen to that— that— scream for blood? And pretend that demon is fit to give us orders? If you can’t help, Professor, what are we supposed to do? Run headlong into death because that boar tells us to?” 

“I’m not going to let that happen.”

“You had better promise me that, right now, swear upon whatever you think is holy in that— that empty head of yours— and if you can’t, I’m leaving.” Felix took a shuddering breath and bowed his head. His hands curled into fists. “I will leave, because I am not throwing my life away, not for duty, not for that demon.” 

“Felix,” Byleth said, and Felix’s whole body tensed up, as if he were waiting for a blow. “I swear to you, and there is nothing more important to me than you, your friends and classmates, I swear to you that I will not allow him to bring you harm. I will not ask you to lay down your life for him.” Felix picked up his head, and peered sideways at Byleth past the fur of his hood. Byleth could see his eyes glistening. 

“Fine,” he said heavily, “that works.” He stalked away back towards the dorms. 

Byleth turned back to the cathedral. As he walked through the doors, a sense of disquiet settled on him. He suddenly felt alert to danger, but couldn’t yet tell what was off. Dimitri was still there, awkwardly draped across the broken bits of ceiling, a blot of blue among the shattered fresco. Then he heard it, a shuffling sound. Someone else was in here, and in fact, had waited for both Byleth and Felix to leave. Byleth often stayed in the cathedral with Dimitri when Felix wasn’t there, and vice versa. Byleth quietly unsheathed his sword, and slowly moved to the edge of the sanctum, so that his back wasn’t exposed. He kept his eyes on Dimitri as much as possible, while trying to get closer to the altar. As he passed behind a column, the uninvited guest made his move.

An assassin, wearing soft shoes and carrying a bright short sword, rushed the altar and fell on the prince. Dimitri, though half awake, didn’t hear him in time. Nor was Byleth close enough, being armed with only the steel sword he habitually carried. Byleth’s breath caught as he heard Dimitri cry once, in surprised agony. He sprinted forward to see the assassin stumble, holding his arm, which was crushed, slipping on blood and rain water, fall backwards with a sharp crack. Out cold. He made it to Dimitri’s side. The cloak was black with blood all along one side; the assassin had gotten him in the little gap in the armor at his armpit, a straight shot to his heart. Byleth stifled a cry. Never too late, never too late. He felt for the divine pulse, and entered it. 

He blinked and saw Felix’s hard gaze. A moment’s invitation. Byleth strode forward quickly and grabbed Felix’s arm. “Hey! What is your problem?” Felix protested as Byleth dragged them to the center of the sanctum. 

“You heard me singing,” Byleth said quickly, “that’s what you wanted to tell me, as your way of asking how Dimitri is doing.” 

Felix’s eyes bugged out. “How did you know that?” 

“I just know, but that discussion will have to wait. There’s an assassin in here.” 

Felix’s eyes bugged out even more. “What?” he hissed, immediately taking out a sword. “Where, how?” 

“I’ll go to Dimitri, you do a lap around the cathedral to see if you can find the assassin. Please be careful, he’s carrying a short sword, but he might also have a bow.” 

“So you saw him?”

“Not yet.” 

“You’re not making any sense,” Felix growled, and crept away on his search. 

Dimitri had gotten to his feet, having been roused by their frenzied whispering. Byleth strode towards him and held out his hand in warning. “Stay there, keep your back to the altar, there’s someone here to kill you.” 

Dimitri’s eye widened in shock, “Professor—“ 

A wave of fatigue hit Byleth. He looked down and saw the tip of an arrow sticking out of his coat beneath his shoulder. He turned, dazed. A figure was there, crouched in the pews, a mini bow glittering in his hands. He could hear Sothis laughing at him, poor fool, doesn’t even know the value of his own life. He didn’t understand, why would the assassin fight the three of them? Then, almost as if it were inevitable, the assassin turned towards Dimitri, who had come up behind Byleth, and drew his bow; his head was uncovered, it would be easy. Right through the good eye, perhaps? Byleth groped for the pulse. It was then that a sizable chunk of the ceiling just obliterated the assassin. 

Dimitri howled, and started to laugh. Byleth saw the plaster dust on Dimitri’s hands, but in this haze of pain he didn’t think about it. There wasn’t anything to think about but their safety. “Felix,” he grunted.

“What?” Dimitri said, stepping forward to grab him. 

“Fight three of us? No— he got Felix.” Dimitri’s eye became wild, he let go and ran. Byleth stumbled after him, feeling the arrow grinding in his shoulder. He reached the door, and saw Dimitri fall at the side of a small form, hood ruffling in the cold wind. “I promised him,” Byleth said through gritted teeth. “Not now, not ever.” Weak, but he could still feel the pulse, and reached for it. 

Strange, he thought, as the world’s time flowed back like the tide flooding a river, reversing its course, that the assassin should become so desperate whenever he’s found out, and fight all of them. Not a mercenary then, a true believer. A believer of what? To Byleth belief seemed so arbitrary. No matter. There was the problem of the assassin’s movement to solve. Felix hadn’t seen him, and neither had Byleth. How far did he have to go back to ensure they all made it out of the cathedral alive tonight? Earlier, earlier. If he went back too early, to prevent it from happening at all, it was likely they wouldn’t catch him before he tried it another night. Too late and the assassin would already have clocked their movements and picked them off. 

He blinked, and he was standing in the little room. Night had just fallen. Byleth’s old thoughts crowded with his new ones: make the bed, make Dimitri sleep, find Felix, keep him and Dimitri alive. He ran from the dormitory to the cathedral, stopping to talk to Linhardt in the dining hall on the way. 

He was getting sick of the sight, Sothis help him, of Dimitri splayed out in the same way. He looked over and saw that Felix was keeping vigil closer to the altar, not where Byleth had found him that previous iteration of the night. Hopefully the assassin wasn’t in here just yet. He went up to Dimitri, as usual. He wasn’t asleep yet, to Byleth’s relief. He could have hardly used the divine pulse with a crushed throat. “Dimitri,” he said softly.

“What,” he said flatly, “come to spirit me away again? I don’t need it.” 

“On the contrary, I need you to do just what you’re doing now,” Byleth said with his small, unreadable smile, which evinced a glower from Dimitri, who fully expected to be harried for all of his choices, with good reason. 

“You’ll find the reason amusing, I’m sure,” Byleth said. 

Dimitri sat up, growling, “Have you lost it? What are you talking about?” 

“I will tell you if you promise to restrain yourself, and act as if I haven’t just told you what I’m about to say.”

“Fine, but enough of these games, out with it,” he spat. 

“I’m trying to catch an assassin, an assassin who’s here for you.” Dimitri’s eye widened, and his whole body stiffened. There it was, that sense of self-preservation he knew was in there. Byleth sighed. “That means I have to use you as bait. I’m not letting him get away, and I’m not letting him harm you. Take this.” He handed Dimitri a napkin. Inside was a hunk of bread. “Please eat, and recall my presentation on the weaknesses in plate armor.” 

“Professor, I—“

“Do you remember?” 

“Back of the knees, girdle if you get the right angle, armpit on the left side’s the biggest weakness, since any blade four inches or longer will pierce the heart, but it’s tricky to—“ 

“Right, about that last one— you’re to present that opportunity to him. Please only pretend to sleep.” Byleth commanded. Dimitri blinked. For a moment, the memory of another time intruded, and he heard Dimitri’s last cry. Tears filled Byleth’s eyes. Dimitri’s hard face broke with horror, but Byleth had already stood up and gone over to Felix, who was watching them curiously. Felix shifted uncomfortably as Byleth came up to him, avoiding his gaze. 

“Not going to try to get him to sleep tonight, I take it?” Felix said, both dismissive and disappointed. Byleth shook his head.

“Tonight is not the night.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Felix asked angrily, catching on that something was wrong. Byleth told him to hush and explained the plan. Once Felix had been caught up, a small smile played across his face. Byleth was pleased to see that Felix liked the idea purely as a challenge. 

The moon began to rise. Byleth took his leave and went to his position to wait. If he concentrated, he felt time move with such accuracy that it was slightly maddening. He could see the time of the assassin’s attack approach as clearly as if it were a monument he was walking steadily towards. He watched Felix leave the cathedral, at more or less the time the two of them had left in that other stream of time. Felix turned away from the bridge however, and disappeared into the gloom. Byleth turned towards Linhardt, who was crouching at his elbow. 

“I still don’t understand, Professor, how you know the assassin’s in there if you haven’t seen him at all.” 

“Not now, warp me,” Byleth said, and Linhardt sighed and cast the spell. 

The empty courtyard disappeared from sight, and after a brief sensation of falling, Byleth landed just to the right of the altar. Felix blinked into the sanctum at almost the same time, to the left of the altar. The assassin was caught in the middle, a few feet from Dimitri, who was comfortably lying on his right side, apparently comatose. Byleth shot the assassin in the leg, and while he stumbled, Felix ran in and disarmed him handily. The sword clattered down the aisle. Dimitri leapt up and howled, laughing wildly. Before Byleth could make a noise Dimitri stepped to the assassin crouched on the floor, disarmed, injured, and crushed his skull with his armored hands. Felix flinched. 

“Boar!” Felix screamed, “Damn you, damn you and your damned, bloody hands! We needed to know why— who—“ He couldn’t finish, and merely bit into his sleeve and continued to scream. 

“They can keep coming for me for all I care,” Dimitri said, looking at a point just past the crushed assassin. 

Felix ran and body-checked Dimitri into the rubble. He fell heavily but remained down, seeming to have no interest in fighting Felix. Felix leapt back and slid in the assassin’s blood, face contorted in rage. “Fight me, you demon! Don’t just stare at me, don’t just wait until I die fighting for you in your idiotic crusade to kill every last imperial soul, fight me and kill me now!” 

Byleth tried to pull Felix back, but he tore his arm out of his grip. How beautiful this night had been, in another time, when Felix had expressed his fear to him on the bridge, and Dimitri had died. All our days and nights, imperfect somehow. Felix brandished his sword, but Dimitri just rose and stepped higher onto the rubble, out of Felix’s reach. 

“I do not ask you to die for me,” Dimitri said, quietly. “There’s no need, not for my sake.”

Felix, dumbfounded, slackened his grip on the sword. Its point gently tapped the marble floor. He spun on Byleth, snarling, “This was a stupid idea, we should have known he would just—“ He sheathed his sword and marched out of the cathedral. 

Dimitri slid down the pile, and walked around the assassin’s body. “I’ve marked this place with death too,” he said impassively. “Everything holy I defile.” Byleth caught his arm, and squeezed, and if it weren’t for the armor, it would have definitely hurt. 

“You don’t know what I had to do to remove that assassin as a threat. I saw you and Felix—“ Byleth faltered. Dimitri just looked on, as distant as before, with the glazed expression of one drowning, having been exhausted by the tide. “I know you don’t care. You are, however, going to come with me, because after all that I’m not leaving you in a big, open area like this.” And so they walked, goddess and follower, from the sanctum. Byleth found Manuela, who had warped Felix, and told her to get a crew to clean up the altar. In some other stream of time, Dimitri is there in this courtyard, on his knees next to Felix, and Byleth is running towards them, lungs filling up with blood. Perhaps in that time he rediscovered the value of the lives around him, and perhaps even the value of his own life. Byleth felt lightheaded, thinking about it. He wavered, and Dimitri leaned into him to steady him. 

— —

Byleth watched as Dimitri darned the heel of one of his socks. His hand went back and forth over the hole, guiding a length of rough spun gray wool through the fine black-dyed knit, weaving the patch over a wooden egg, so that it had the shape of a heel. Hand, eye, and needle, back and forth, back and forth. The darned area rose over the smooth knit like a gray scab, or like gray fog hanging over a still, black lake. “Not pretty, I know,” Dimitri said, noticing Byleth’s keen interest. 

“The mended areas don’t look like the rest of it,” Byleth noted, “You’re weaving, so it’ll be rigid. That’s not at all like how a sock should be.” 

“It’s true. The mended areas are stiff, almost like a scar— but it’s whole,” Dimitri worked quietly for some time, before saying, “I think— I think I remember you singing, or did I dream that? I couldn’t have, I only have nightmares these days.” 

“I did sing to you.” 

“What was the song?” 

Byleth hummed a few bars. “I remember this song from long ago, but I don’t remember where I heard it, or why I know it.” 

“What are the words?” 

Byleth sang it aloud, though it came to him less readily than it did that night, as if it were fleeing from his memory like a dream. Dimitri’s work slowed as he listened intently. The song stumbled along to its end, Byleth shaking his head once it was finished. “I’m sorry, I’m not much of a singer.” 

“Is this how it goes?” Dimitri put the sock down and began to sing. In his voice, off-key and broken, the song flowed forth like a spring burbling under ice. Singing rattled something loose inside him, his eye gleamed over-bright in the dim room. “I can’t fix all of this,” he said, “There’s so much damage. So much…” A tear or two rolled down his cheek.

Byleth hummed, and picked up the knit shirt. The shoulders were translucent with wear, and the elbows were tattered. “Show me how to mend. We’ll do it one step at a time.”


End file.
